


Fall

by SleepsWithCoyotes



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Demons, Canon Divergence - Captain America: The First Avenger, Captain America: The First Avenger, Demon Bucky Barnes, M/M, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-19 05:41:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10633419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepsWithCoyotes/pseuds/SleepsWithCoyotes
Summary: "I don't want to kill anyone," he says slowly, bracing himself for the inevitable look of disgust, to be called a coward.  It's an assumption plenty of people have made because of his size alone.  "I don't like bullies.  I don't care where they're from."The corners of Erskine's mouth turn down thoughtfully as he nods, clearly pleased with Steve's answer.  "I see.  And what is your opinion of demons, Mr. Rogers?"





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A very late night and a very early morning conspired with [a misread billboard](http://ciceqi.tumblr.com/post/159457086918/so-i-was-really-really-tired) that ended in ~~tragedy~~ ~~comedy~~ ridiculousness. And then it just snowballed.
> 
> Rating is definitely going to go up. :3

The back of Steve's neck prickles as he watches the military doctor follow the nurse out of the exam room, the doctor pulling the scratchy curtain strung across the doorway closed as he goes. It does nothing to muffle the bustle of the recruitment station, but the obstructed view feels suddenly ominous. He doesn't need the sign hung up on the wall at his back to remind him that what he's doing is illegal. That's bull anyway; so what if he lied on his enlistment form--again? Shouldn't they be happy he _wants_ to go and fight?

Prudence gets the better of him as he scrambles off the exam table and starts stuffing his feet into his overlarge shoes. He's not going to be fighting the war from inside a jail cell. He's too late; before he can try slipping out unnoticed, an MP steps through the curtain, face flat and unsmiling. Steve's fast on his feet, but the man's blocking enough of the door that he'll just get collared if he makes a break for it.

His heart's already beating a mile a minute before a spectacled man with thinning grey hair steps in, a lean file in hand.

"Thank you," he says to the MP, who nods sharply and lets himself out, leaving Steve and the old man alone. Turning to Steve, the old guy laces his hands behind his back and looks Steve over curiously. There's no mockery in his smile, but it makes Steve nervous all the same.

"So," the old guy says, looking down at last as he opens the file and starts flipping through pages. "You want to go overseas. Kill some Nazis."

Steve's caught flat-footed at the bald accusation, then has to ask himself why it feels like an attack. "Excuse me?" he says, stalling instinctively for time.

"Dr. Abraham Erskine," the old man says in lieu of repeating himself, stepping towards Steve with his hand outstretched. "I represent the Strategic Scientific Reserve."

"Steve Rogers," he says automatically as he rises to meet the doctor. He's more confused than reassured by the introduction, but politeness costs nothing.

Erskine nods as they shake hands, then steps away to lay his mysterious file out on a nearby counter.

"Where are you from?" Steve asks without thinking. Erskine's accent is strong, not quite a match for the bad guys in the movies, but fairly close.

"Queens," Erskine replies blandly, looking up from his file to meet and hold Steve's eyes. Steve's insides squirm with embarrassment. "73rd Street and Utopia Parkway. Before that, Germany," Erskine adds, turning back to his file. "This troubles you?" he asks in the next instant, eyebrows lifting.

"No," Steve says quickly, wishing hopelessly that he'd ever learned to keep his foot out of his mouth. Not that there's been much of anyone to talk to since his ma died.

"Where are _you_ from, Mr. Rogers?" Erskine asks, and now Steve knows exactly what's in that file. "Is it New Haven? Or Paramus? Five exams in five different cities--"

"That might not be the right file," Steve breaks in, a lump of ice growing in the pit of his stomach.

"No, it's not the exams I'm interested in," Erskine says calmly. "It's the five tries." He closes the file again while Steve's still digesting that, wondering if maybe...maybe he's going to be let off with a warning. If Erskine is amused, maybe even admires his determination, not that he'll be allowed to say so.

"But you didn't answer my question," Erskine goes on, picking up Steve's file and bringing it with him as he steps around the counter, staring seriously into Steve's eyes from only a few feet away. "Do you want to kill Nazis?"

Having drawn breath to rattle off his own address, Steve's caught up short again. It's not the question he expected to be pressed for, and it rubs him the wrong way, though he can't quite put a finger on why. He's not dumb; he knows what being in a war means. It's just--

"I don't want to kill anyone," he says slowly, bracing himself for the inevitable look of disgust, to be called a coward. It's an assumption plenty of people have made because of his size alone. "I don't like bullies. I don't care where they're from."

The corners of Erskine's mouth turn down thoughtfully as he nods, clearly pleased with Steve's answer. "I see. And what is your opinion of demons, Mr. Rogers?"

He opens his mouth and shuts it again. "Is this a test?"

Erskine arches his brows. "Yes."

"Ah...dangerous?" he offers. "Hard to control. Vital to the war effort but in short supply, at least on our end."

"A concise summation of the situation, but what is your _personal_ opinion of the creatures?"

Steve shakes his head helplessly. "I've never met a demon," he admits. "My ma did cursebreaking at the hospital, but she never brought it home. Never dealt in summoning, either."

"And having met a demon...that matters to you."

Steve hunches a shoulder. "Well...yeah. Unless there's just one demon and he can be in a while lot of places at once, I figure...they've all got to be different, right? Just like us."

"And yet they all came into being the same way."

Steve's not quite sure what Erskine wants. He _seems_ to be leading Steve toward a declaration of uniform wickedness, but being led anywhere is the sort of thing that makes Steve dig in his heels. Squaring his shoulders, he decides that if knowing his opinion matters that much to Erskine, he's going to get it.

"Maybe so," he says stubbornly, "but forever's a long time not to change your mind...or be given a second chance."

For some reason that makes Erskine smile. "Well," Erskine says brightly, "luckily for you, the fifth chance may be the charm."

***

Basic is...tough. He's not even in with the regular recruits; the SSR have their own little bunch they're putting through their paces, sizing them up for something called Project Rebirth, and even the scrawniest man there makes Steve look like an animated bundle of twigs. They're not bad guys, most of them, though they have an infuriating habit of treating him like a little kid _playing_ at being a soldier.

As they're coming off the obstacle course, mud-splattered and--at least in Steve's case--panting hard as their hearts knock painfully behind their ribs, McGuire catches his breath with a grin and calls out, "Hey, Agent! This is great and all, but when are we gonna learn how to summon?"

Carter's alone today, which is probably what's given McGuire the guts to talk to her in the first place. After the way she laid out Hodge, the guys all hop when she says jump, but they don't go out of their way to engage her otherwise, not wanting to poke a bear. Tapping a finger thoughtfully against the steering wheel of the Jeep she followed them out in, Carter gives McGuire a long, considering look and says, "You're not."

That brings everyone up short, trading puzzled glances in silence.

All eyes settle on McGuire, who hunches his shoulders under their expectant looks. As their duly nominated spokesperson, he clears his throat and asks, "Uh...isn't that what we're here for? I mean...this big project of yours. Thought you were looking for summoner-soldiers to take the fight to Fritz."

Carter's eyes flick them coolly. The actual details of Project Rebirth are a source of constant speculation amongst the guys, but she's got to be wondering just how much they know, how much it's safe to say.

"Have any of you summoned before?" she asks crisply, arching a brow. No one raises a hand. "Then it does no good to explain exactly how what we're doing is different from the usual. Just understand that the ritual you'll be performing-- _if_ you perform it--will tax even the strongest of you to complete. And if it succeeds, you'll have you'll hands too full with the results to worry about performing the ritual twice." She sweeps them with another sharp look, unimpressed by the few who puff up, ready to protest they can handle any demon. "If we wanted soldiers who could summon indiscriminately, I assure you, we'd have them. You're here in the hopes that you can learn something better."

The mood is subdued as they return to barracks and prepare to hit the showers. Only Hodge seems more excited than thoughtful, swaggering around with his usual smug grin stretched wide. 

"What's got you in such a good mood?" Meade asks with a frown.

"Are you kidding?" Hodge laughs. "This is gonna be great."

"Oh, yeah. Great," Thompson huffs sarcastically. "We're being set up to summon the Prince of Darkness, but sure, we'll call it great."

Hodge snorts. "Are you kidding? If it works, it's gonna be like having an Abrams tank for a lapdog."

"Lapdog," Steve scoffs before he can bite it back, Hodge's flippant manner finally getting on his last nerve. He means to point out that demons are a valuable war resource they don't have nearly enough of, but Hodge's nasty grin stops him.

"Sure," Hodge says cheerfully, "why not? It's bound to you, isn't it? Like having a genie on a leash. Look, my granddad was a summoner, and my dad says he could keep three demons on the hook without half trying. You just gotta make sure they remember who's boss.

"Anyway, if you'd ever seen a demon at work, you'd get it," he says loftily, turning pointedly away from Steve to grin at the others. "Binding a demon as strong as the lady says? We'll be unstoppable."

"That's if it doesn't eat us first," Stillman mutters, shaking his head.

"Well, that's why it's an experiment, right?" Hodge says with a shrug. "And why it's secret. I mean, the demons the Nazis have are strong-- _really_ strong, like...nothing nobody's ever seen. They gotta be doing the same thing. Trying out different bindings, different rituals."

McGuire shrugs. "I dunno. I mean, we've got summoners already. I don't get why they're not just showing those guys their new trick. What do they need us for?"

Hodge smirks. "Have you seen those guys? Sure, we've got summoners, but all they can do is hide behind the real soldiers," he scoffs, eyes flicking sideways to drag pointedly up and down Steve's skinny frame. "And demons, they can _do_ things to a person, if they're powerful enough. Make you faster, stronger. Who knows? Sky's the limit, boys."

 _Sure_ , Steve doesn't say, _faster and stronger, but what about smarter and better-looking_? He can't brawl with his fellow recruits, much as Hodge makes him want to. He can't blow his only shot at being a soldier, even if it means letting idiots like Hodge run their mouths.

He really hopes Hodge isn't the one they pick, though. Not only because he can see the guy going mad with power like a villain in one of his comic books. He'd also feel sorry for the poor bastard who got stuck with him, and it's kind of weird to think about pitying a demon.

***

In the instant he sees the grenade, he doesn't think about lost chances. He doesn't think about duty, or sacrifice, or impressing men who see him as a joke, worthless. He only sees danger, and he's _right there_.

The rest is just instinct.

***

The night before the ritual, Steve can't sleep. It's too quiet in the barracks with all the others gone, transferred out to other units that morning. The transfers seem premature to him; there's no guarantee that he'll actually succeed tomorrow, and it seems to him like they ought to keep at least one of the guys in reserve, just in case.

He's sitting on his bunk with a book in hand, eyes moving over the page without taking in a word, when a knock comes on the door. Turning half around, he's surprised to see Dr. Erskine poke his head in, a bottle in hand.

"May I?" Erskine asks, effortlessly polite as always. He makes Steve feel like an uncultured buffoon sometimes, but never on purpose. If he has half Erskine's poise when--if--he gets to that age, he'll call it a life well spent.

"Yeah," Steve says, closing his book. His hands press too hard into the covers, holding on tight. Erskine has two classes in his right hand in addition to the bottle in his left, so maybe this is meant to be a victory toast.

"Can't sleep?" Erskine asks as he shuts the barracks door behind himself.

"I got the jitters, I guess," Steve admits.

"Me too," Erskine surprises him by agreeing. He sets the stacked glasses down on Steve's floor locker but keeps hold of the bottle, flattening out the rolled-up mattress on the bunk next to Steve's and sinking tiredly down to sit across from him.

"Can I ask you a question?" Steve asks hesitantly, voice small.

Erskine's mouth quirks kindly. "Just one?"

"Why me?"

Erskine's silent a moment, staring at the bottle he rests on his knee. "I suppose that is the only question that matters," he says, his voice gone sober. For some reason, the bottle on his knee seems to fascinate him. "This is from Augsburg," he says at last with a sad little smile. "My city. So many people forget that the first country the Nazis invaded was their own.

"You know, after the last war, my people struggled," he says conversationally, as if the hurt is so old, so accustomed, it's become a part of him. "They felt weak. They felt small. And then Hitler comes along with the marching and the big show and the flags...." He takes a deep breath, his words coming just slightly faster, with the faintest hint of a tremor beneath.

"And he--he hears of me. My work. And he finds me. And he says, 'You'." Steve jumps a little when Erskine jabs a finger in his direction. "He says, 'You will make us strong.' Well," he says, turning his pointing finger into a warding, upraised palm, "I am not interested." He shakes his head insistently, finally setting the bottle down between his feet. "So he sends the head of Hydra, his research division. A brilliant scientist by the name of Johann Schmidt.

"Now, Schmidt is a member of the inner circle," Erskine explains, adjusting his glasses to peer more intently into Steve's face, making sure he's paying attention. "And he is ambitious. He and Hitler share a passion for occult power and Teutonic myth. Hitler uses his practitioners of the Art to inspire his followers, but for Schmidt, it is not mere theater. For him, the myths are real.

"He has become convinced that there is a great power hidden in the earth, left here by the gods, waiting to be seized by a superior man," Erskine says grimly, and Steve feels an answering chill shiver down his spine. "So when he hears about my studies, about the new...breeds I have summoned," he settles on after a moment of thought, "he cannot resist."

Erskine shakes his head slowly. "Understand, for all the books we've written on the subject, we humans understand very little about demonkind. The ones we've seen thus far have all been...like us, in a sense. Their forms shift, but they still maintain a corporeal manifestation. Only once, quite by accident, I managed to summon one that did _not_ care to maintain a separate form. It preferred to dwell within a host body until its powers were directly called upon...and I was forced to respectfully decline."

Steve frowns. "Wait...so you mean it wanted to possess you?"

"No. I mean a linking of flesh and spirit. The demon, I think, would have retained its nature, but the host would have been changed in irrevocable ways, taking on some of the virtues of a demonic form." He shrugs at Steve's curious frown. "Increased strength, longevity, the ability to withstand physical damage. I didn't enquire into the specifics."

"But Schmidt did."

"Yes. But I think the answers he received were not the ones he was looking for." He shakes his head again with a sigh. "The ritual I was developing was unfinished when Schmidt put my research into practice. I had thought to offer the possibility of demonic bonding as a choice to those whose lives might otherwise be cut short, but as the more...clandestine uses of the ritual began to occur to me, I found myself hesitant to finish. Schmidt wouldn't listen when I tried to tell him the ritual was not ready, but more important, the man was not ready."

Erskine's eyes bore into his, and Steve sits straight and tall, hanging on every word. He's pretty sure what he's being told are state secrets, but if Erskine thinks he needs to know, he probably does.

"The demon--the _symbiont_ \--was meant to be only a passenger, linked inextricably to its host until death, but ultimately separate. Instead, the ritual as Schmidt performed it merged them completely. In another man, a good man, it may have honed that goodness to greatness. In Schmidt, bad became worse."

"So he's literally half demon now," Steve says slowly. He'd be lying if he said the thought didn’t terrify him; he's just not certain whether he should spare some of that fear for himself.

"Yes. And this is why you were chosen," Erskine says, nearly giving Steve a heart attack. "The ritual you will perform is quite different--we wouldn't ask such a thing of you--but it's best to prepare for any eventuality. A strong man who has known power all his life may lose respect for that power, but a weak man knows the value of strength--and knows compassion. Whatever answers your call tomorrow, I trust you to use its strength wisely."

"Thanks," Steve says with a conflicted frown, "I think."

Erskine's eyes are dancing, though he keeps his grin pared down to a wry little smile. "Well. As for tomorrow's ritual," he says briskly, "I'm afraid there's not much I can tell you. Not because I don't wish to, but because we simply don't yet know. Always before we've been limited in what we can summon by the strength of our containment circles, our invocations...our Art and our will. But with what we've learned in the last fifty, sixty years of the manipulation of energy, those rules are changing.

"I don't know what will come to your summons. We can only hope to contain it long enough for you to forge a pact with it, or dismiss it if no agreement can be reached. Banishing what you call should not be considered a failure," he adds earnestly. "Your safety is of the utmost importance. Bear in mind that it took us this long to find _one_ candidate; it would be a terrible waste to have to find another when you could have made a second attempt."

"Sure, doc," Steve says, trying to swallow a laugh. "I'll try not to ruin all your hard work."

Erskine nods sharply. "See that you don't." Brightening in the next instant, he waves a hand at the glasses sitting near Steve's elbow, reaching down to retrieve his bottle. "Whatever happens tomorrow, you must promise me one thing," he says as he pours out a measure into each glass. "That you will stay who you are. Not a perfect soldier, but a good man."

He jabs his finger in Steve's direction again, this time pointing at Steve's heart. It feels like a lot of responsibility, maybe more than he'd bargained for. He's always tried to be a _decent_ man, but he knows his own faults too well to call himself _good_. He knows he'll do his best, though. He refuses to do less than anyone else.

"To the little guys," he says, lifting his glass in a toast. Their glasses clink, Erskine smiling.

Steve's about to take a drink when Erskine jolts, reaching out to stop him. "No, no, wait--wait! What am I doing?" he berates himself, taking the glass from Steve. "You should be purifying yourself for the ritual tomorrow. No alcohol, only water."

"All right," Steve says, embarrassed he forgot. "We'll drink it after."

Erskine scoffs, pouring one glass into the other. "No, no, I'm not purifying. Drink it after? I drink it now."

He knocks the glass back like a trooper then, and Steve watches with a smile he can't quite contain, though he always tries to be respectful. It's so strange to think the old man's a master summoner; he has no demons following him around, looks more like a science professor than a fearsome occultist, and yet even Colonel Phillips defers to him. He almost wonders why Erskine doesn't perform the ritual himself, except that Hodge is probably right in this one thing: the war needs younger men who can stand their ground and fight.

Steve's not exactly sure where he fits in this scheme, but...maybe Hodge is right about that too. Maybe a demon could fix him, give him the strength he needs to do what needs to be done.

"Oh. I...guess I do have one more question," Steve says as a sudden thought hits him. "Why demons? I mean...hasn't anyone ever tried to summon an angel before?"

"Oh, yes," Erskine says, lighting up like a professor who's finally been asked about a subject near and dear to his heart. "Often, in fact. And sometimes they even answer...but they don't intervene in human affairs, or if they do, it's for reasons of their own. A demon can at least be aimed," he says, gesturing with his now-empty glass, "coerced if necessary. An angel is as likely to aid the enemy, and you'll never discover why."

"Huh. Well...let's hear it for demons," Steve says philosophically, casting a wistful glance at the bottle in Erskine's hand. He's never been much of a drinker, but at this point he'd risk the hangover just to have something to settle his nerves.

***

The summoning chamber is hidden under an antiques store in Brooklyn, not far from Steve's old haunts. He could have walked here from the printing shop where he'd drawn war posters on commission--reduced commission, since someone else had had to paint them before they could go to press. Feeling self-conscious in his sharply-pressed new uniform, he follows Carter into the shop and through a genuine secret door built into a bookcase, which opens onto featureless, two-toned walls like something out of a hospital ward.

Carter leads with a sure stride, clearly having been this way before. A pair of MPs open a pair of doors as they approach, and they step out onto a landing overlooking a huge, open room tiled in white, clean as an operating theater. They're taking no chances with contaminants, leaving nothing to chance; when the doors shut behind them, they seal with a pressurized hiss, the chamber's climate perfectly controlled.

While Carter sizes him up with a near-invisible frown, a hint of worry in her eyes, Steve takes the chance to stare down at the summoning circle below, already set up and waiting for him.

The circle sits on a raised platform, surrounded by a sunken ring with what must be a full coven stationed at regular intervals, ready to provide backup. The design that rings the edge of the platform is intricate, mathematical in its perfection. In the comics, summoning circles are usually just giant pentagrams, maybe with a few foreign-looking symbols added to make them look more mysterious. This one's the real deal, only it puts the real deal to shame: thanks to the crash course in magical theory crammed into his brain along with drill cadence and how to field strip a rifle, Steve spots the sigils and trappings of at least three separate schools of magic, seamlessly interwoven.

There's a second circle within the circle, ringed thickly with protective sigils, and he can tell at a glance that this is where he's meant to stand. He almost expects to find a second, corresponding circle for the demon, but there's nothing. He's going to penned in there like a tethered goat left as bait for a tiger, but he tells himself it's just to set the demon at ease, give it a false sense of security. He's probably dead wrong, but what they didn't cover in the books probably won't help him to know.

Everyone stops what they're doing and turns to look at him when they realize he's there, and he knows he's not imagining the dismay on several faces.

Erskine is the first to recover, calling, "Mr. Stark? Is your machine ready?"

"Levels at one hundred percent," a dark-haired man with a neat moustache replies, joining Erskine at the steps leading up to the summoning circle. He walks with both flair and purpose, dark eyes alight with excitement, and though he's dressed down to his vest and shirtsleeves, every stitch screams quality, money. It occurs to Steve belatedly that this is _Howard_ Stark, up-and-coming inventor and tycoon. The last time he'd seen the man, he'd been showing off a flying car. "We may dim half the lights in Brooklyn, but we're ready as we'll ever be."

Coming down the steps from the landing, Steve darts a questioning look at Erskine, who gives him a reassuring smile. "Mr. Stark has discovered a way to manipulate occult energies through the use of...well, frankly it still sounds like magic to me," Erskine admits, blowing out a sigh.

"Trade secret, my friend," Stark says with a grin. "If I told you, I'd have to hire you. You're not looking for a job, are you?"

Erskine snorts but pats Stark on the shoulder. "As I understand it," Erskine explains to Steve, "the machinery under the summoning circle generates a field that will assist in keeping a demon contained. This will let you summon a stronger demon than would ordinarily be wise, but it does have its drawbacks."

"Rogers, right?" Stark cuts in with a glance at Erskine. Unlike the rest of the staff, he doesn't give Steve a nervous once-over, subtly or not-so-subtly comparing their heights, assessing the fragility of his neck and wrists left by years of illness. He meets Steve's eyes steadily, expecting Steve to be as excited as he his. "Look, once you step inside that circle, we're not going to be able to help you. The field I'll be generating should keep Lucy himself inside, but it'll also fry anyone who tries to step into the ring with you. The coven? They're a failsafe, last-ditch line of defense. Just pretend they're not even here, because by the time you need 'em, it'll be too late."

"That's...very inspiring, Mr. Stark, thank you," Erskine breaks in with a pained grimace, reaching out to take Steve by the shoulder and steer him towards the platform's steps. Stark just grins, clapping Steve on the back as he passes.

"Steven," Erskine says soberly, hand tightening briefly in reassurance. "Do your best, and you'll be fine. And remember what I told you. No heroics."

"Got it, doc," he says, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. "Wish me luck."

"Of course."

Crossing the first layer of the summoning circle's wards is anticlimactic. Stepping over the thickly-clustered sigils etched into the flat sheet of concrete that forms the platform's top, Steve feels a soft prickle like static electricity flutter over his skin. There's no light show, no visible spark, but it's good to have even that small assurance that the wards are working as they should.

"Mr. Stark?" Erskine calls as Steve crosses the platform.

"Containment field at ten percent and rising. Twenty percent," Stark adds, watching an unfamiliar monitor as he adjusts a heavy dial. "Thirty!"

Stepping into the summoner's circle, the reaction is a bit stronger. The fine hairs on Steve's arms and the back of his neck do their best to stand on end, partially because the wards keyed to him are more powerful, partly from the instinctive awareness that the laws of the universe as he understands them are tilted just a little off-center here.

He takes another deep breath and holds it this time, panic spearing through him as his mind goes blank. He's forgotten the words; Erskine's going to have to prompt him, and if he can't even make it through the opening invocation--

"Forty percent!"

 _Breathe_. He needs to breathe. Out, and then slowly in. He knows this. He knows it by heart if he'll just relax and let it come.

The words he rattles off in his clearest, strongest voice are all but meaningless to him. He recognizes bits of Latin parroted back at Mass, guesses at least some of it might be Hebrew, but beyond that, he has no idea. Greek? Arabic? Something even older? No one bothered to give him the full translation, and he's not sure whether it's because of the element of secrecy or because they figured he just didn't need to know.

He really wishes they had, though. If he's shouting into the void, hoping someone will hear, he hopes he at least sounds friendly, not like he's insulting their mothers.

"Fifty!"

Something shifts inside the circle. Steve thinks it's his imagination at first, but the air _is_ getting darker, maybe thicker. He narrows his eyes to peer into the gathering gloom, but he's quickly distracted by a strange sort of tug behind his ribs. The sensation isn't quite physical, and yet at the same time it is. He finds himself bracing his feet, firming his stance as if something's pulling on him, trying to drag him out of the warded circle.

He almost loses the thread of his invocation when a sharp jerk makes him wobble on his feet, and the thing hauling on him lets up all at once. Terror slithers down his spine as he waits for the harsh yank that will drag him from safety entirely, only...that quick release. The pull had dropped off the instant he wavered, not the instant he stopped.

He's not being pulled. He's an anchor something's making its way closer to, so maybe he should be doing some of the pulling himself.

"Sixty percent," Stark calls off as Steve fists his hands, gathers himself, and tries his best to reel a demon in.

He's not real clear on what he's doing. His mom had been a cursebreaker--a good one--so he's probably got the potential for the Art, but the Art takes more than a good memory and an above-average measure of stubbornness. He imagines a stout rope binding him and the demon, imagines gathering up the slack and hauling it in, hand over hand, and instantly feels as drained as if he's trying to drag a subway car uphill with nothing but grit and determination.

"Seventy!"

He keeps at it, even though he's barely got the breath now to keep up his chant. His heart gallops inside his chest, thumping so hard against his ribs he can feel the second beat, a push and then a drop. His ears ring shrilly as black spots eclipse his vision, but he doesn't let up. He can't, having come so far.

"Steve," he hears Erskine shout over the noise of Stark's machine, the coven chanting in unison, the high whine in Steve's ears. "Are you all right?"

"Doc, he's hooked a strong one," Stark warns before Steve can answer. He sounds tense, hasn't called off another number. "I'm getting overlap in the containment field. If we get this thing in the circle at all, it's because it wants to be here."

" _Steve_ ," Erskine repeats, voice strained.

It's like the world falls away from him, even though he knows it's still there. The room spins, his knees turning to water, and he wavers on his feet as his heart starts skipping beats, every lurch wrung painfully from the muscle.

"Stop the ritual!" he thinks he hears Carter shout somewhere high above.

He grits his teeth, gives up on the invocation entirely, and strains for all he's worth to bring the demon _in_.

The floor washes black like an overturned inkwell spilling across a desk. In almost the same instant, the darkness goes _vertical_ , eerily purposeful even before it fills out and grows limbs, wings, a face. It's a human face, but the rest....

The demon is enormous, so large Steve has trouble wrapping his brain around the fact that it's real, alive. He thinks dimly that this is probably what his very distant ancestors felt upon being confronted with a hungry T-rex, though he has no particular reason to think the demon plans to eat him. It has two arms and two legs, but the hands and feet are tipped with vicious talons, and the creature's legs are leonine, covered with thick black fur. The fur continues upward, narrowing to a thin strip on the demon's muscular belly but growing thicker along its sides until it melts into a chaos of churning wings. Steve thinks they're wings, at least: a confusion of motion half-seen, smears of black with edges that might be feathers. They ruffle impatiently as the demon narrows gas-flame blue eyes, ducking its horned head to peer at Steve with a frown.

The face looming above him is an eerily beautiful one: square-jawed, with a plush, red mouth, its large, brilliant eyes framed by a sweep of dark lashes almost as long as a woman's. Its pale skin is flawless, and its one stab at human imperfection--the shallow cleft of its chin--merely adds character. When it shakes its head abruptly, the wild tangle of its dark mane makes him think _lion_ or _sphynx_ , though he suspects _cherub_ might once have been more accurate.

Steve really wishes he could catch his breath, _talk_ to the creature--and then, suddenly, he can.

The startled gasp he sucks in rasps at first past the obstruction in his lungs, and then he's breathing too deep. Unclenching all at once, his lungs seem to sag in his chest, nerveless or--or no. He coughs out that first surprised gulp of air and breathes in more cautiously, deep and then deeper. And his lungs _fill_.

He's almost distracted from the unfamiliar warmth that twines around him, except that it takes hold of his heart next, catching it between two faltering beats and flooding it with a blissful heat. It seems to relax as well, its gallop slowing to a steady, contented thump.

It's not possible, though. He's warded; the demon shouldn't be able to touch him through the wards, much less work its magic on him. If it can, then something's gone terribly wrong.

The warmth doesn't leave him, but that doesn't comfort him. If he can still feel it, then he's not fixed; the demon's power is the only thing keeping Steve's rebellious body in line, and it can choose to _stop_ helping at any time.

"Hey. You can stop pulling. I'm right here," the demon says, shocking Steve with its perfect English, instantly recognizable accent. Steve ought to know that half-lazy, half-rapid cadence; it's a perfect match for his own. When Steve stubbornly shakes his head, certain only that his job won't be done until a pact is struck, the demon's brows crease with worry. "Hey, c'mon. You're dying, kid."

There are shouts of consternation from beyond the circle, but Steve ignores them and the demon does too. "Does it matter?" Steve asks with his next deep, unlabored breath. It's a luxury he won't have a chance to get used to, but a tiny part of him revels in it all the same.

Pale eyes narrow, going icy as the demon's ears-- _ears_ , it has the ears of a cat set just below the ridged base of curling ram's horns--flatten and get lost in its mane. "And what do you mean by that?"

"We make a deal," Steve says slowly and clearly, his pulse picking up from more natural causes. The demon's magic does nothing to slow it. "Your obedience; person of my choice. You get your soul price early." Erskine...would probably resurrect him just to murder him if he foisted the demon off on him, but Carter--she could have been in this circle just as easily as him. She'll know exactly what to do with this kind of power.

The demon doesn't look at all appeased by Steve's offer. "Is that what they put you in here for?" it demands, crouching even lower. Fists the size of Steve's entire body if he were to curl up plant themselves to either side of him as the demon ducks its head, scowling at him from only a few feet away. The glare it rakes around the room is deadly.

"Would it work?" Steve asks levelly, face tipped up to stare boldly back.

The demon snorts, furnace-hot breath warming Steve's cheeks. "Death magic's got a bite to it. It'd work," the demon admits grudgingly, "but I ain't agreeing to anything until I hear what you want."

"I--I just told you--" Steve stammers with a frown. Does he need to be more specific?

"No. What _you_ want," the demon insists. "What made you walk in here? Power? Wealth? Revenge? C'mon. What was the plan?"

Steve shakes his head. It's embarrassing to admit in front of an audience, but he takes his courage in both hands and lifts his chin a fraction. "I just...wanted to be useful. To make a difference."

The demon huffs, the corners of its mouth curling up in a slow grin full of too many teeth. "Better," it says with sly amusement. The tip of its tail--thick, draconian, black as its fur--flicks like a satisfied cat's. "Now that I can work with."

"W-what?" He feels suddenly lightheaded, even through the worryingly-comfortable haze of warmth the demon's wrapped him in. Is his deal being accepted? The awareness that these might be his final few moments hits him like a freight train, but he reminds himself it's worth it. It is. If this is the best way he'll ever find to serve his country--

"But you're not going to change the world with lungs like _that_ ," the demon says with a grimace, frowning at the center of Steve's chest. One enormous fist lifts, uncurls, and reaches right through the containment circle meant to keep Steve safe. Gold flickers of foxfire play harmlessly over the demon's pale skin until the acid-edged sigils in the floor crack like porcelain in a crazed spiderweb.

Steve can only watch in spellbound horror as the demon lifts a clawed finger and presses the tip of its talon against the hollow of his throat. He expects to have his head taken off, for the demon to gouge in and core him out, but there's only a faint prick, there and gone.

The demon has its hand lifted halfway to its lips when an unearthly shriek fills the summoning chamber, coming from the observation gallery above them. Steve sees the demon hurriedly stick its finger in its mouth as blue eyes widen, but Steve's not particularly concerned with how palatable it's finding his anemic blood at the moment.

Spinning around, he glances up and takes an unconscious step back, then another. That's...what on earth _is_ that?

It's pandemonium in the gallery as officials and scientists scramble for the doors. Colonel Phillips and Agent Carter have both drawn their guns, and Steve hopes like crazy that someone's blessed their bullets, because the demon set loose in there with them is like nothing he's ever seen.

Taller than a human, it's exceptionally thin, with fishbelly-pale skin covered haphazardly by the plates of an electric blue carapace. All of its limbs are too long, its joints too thick, and it reminds Steve a bit of a mantis except for the face. Where the demon Steve called is inhumanly beautiful, this one's just inhuman, its head a shapeless sack left there for the sole purpose of housing all its teeth. Not content with a single row, they descend in crowded ranks down into its throat, perfectly visible when it opens its mouth wide on another scream.

Glass shatters as if the sound itself is a battering ram. Phillips and Carter open fire on the thing, but their bullets ricochet off its carapace and don't seem to trouble it at all when they hit flesh instead. It doesn't even look their way as it leaps through the hole in the glass, landing in the midst of Stark's technicians with its bird-boned arms cocked out at the elbows.

It hisses, portions of its carapace lighting up from within, only to discharge its glow all at once. Blue lightning crackles between it and the technicians diving for safety, vaporizing them where they stand. Hissing again, it leaps forward, batting obstacles out of its way: an abandoned movie camera, two of the MPs, Dr. Erskine.

"Doc!" Steve shouts, heart in his throat, and now he's done it--the thing slews its head-mass his way, throat pulsing with an audible grind. Instantly its carapace flickers alight, the glow stronger this time, almost blinding.

He grits his teeth, closes his eyes when he sees the flash, but the searing lash of lighting he expects doesn't come. Cracking open an eye, he sees nothing but black, but it's a warm darkness, one that smells faintly of musk and spices, and it's...growling.

His demon unfurls its wings from around him with its head dropped low between its shoulders, sensuous lips peeled back from a bear trap of a snarl. " _Mine_ ," it rumbles furiously, concrete cracking apart as it flexes its talons. One crack zippers right to the edge of the platform, severing the intricate wards meant to keep it inside.

Coiling up like a cat, it leaps the pit where the coven have fallen silent and descends on its rival with a low, ripping growl, just catching the thing by one scrawny leg when it tries to scramble out of its way. It shrieks, but neither from terror nor fury; Steve's breath hitches when his demon's head snaps back as if an invisible fist just caught it on the chin.

It shrugs off the blow with an impatient headshake and doesn't lose its grip on its prey, even when the thing twists like an eel and closes its entire head around the side of his demon's arm, shapeless jaws stretched as wide as they can go. Steve can't see _what_ his demon does exactly, but it drops its head closer and closer to the other creature, and slowly the thing begins to flatten away from its narrow-eyed regard. Teeth are ripped loose as skinny limbs press tight to the floor, almost as if a heavy weight were forcing it down. It's almost like a ward, or a shield, but an _offensive_ one.

As soon as it becomes obvious the other creature can't escape, Steve's demon lashes out with its claws, rending the thing apart. There's another bright burst of blue, but this one licks along the unseen shield that's crushing it down and flickers out as the creature boils away to nothing.

"Jesus Christ," someone whimpers into the following silence, and that opens the floodgates, but--

"Wait," Steve says, looking wildly around him. "Who _summoned_ that thing?"

His demon tenses, sniffing the air, then makes a standing leap for the observation gallery. Its claws dig deep into the concrete and steel surrounding what's left of the windows as it peers through the busted glass. Carter brings up her gun, stepping boldly between it and Phillips, but it pays no more attention to them than the other creature had.

There's a third person edging along the walls, almost at the door, and Steve's demon is _never_ going to fit inside.

As it ducks its head into the hole, the demon's entire body begins to shrink. Wings fold up and melt away, fur retreating like water sluicing off its body. It's human-sized when it lunges for their most likely suspect, catches the man by the scruff and pitches him out through the broken window.

Phillips mutters a consternated curse, but Steve's too busy tearing down the platform stairs and scrambling up out of the pit to stop and ask why. Their summoner is still alive, though dazed; he lies on his back, one leg twisted at an awkward angle, and scrabbles around himself for--

There's a gun on the floor, and Steve doubts very much that one of the MPs dropped it.

Scooping it up in a hurry, he draws himself up as tall as he's able, strides back to the traitor and aims the gun right between the bastard's eyes.

"Who are you?" he demands, proud of how strong his voice emerges. "Who sent you?"

The man blinks up at him, dazed, then slowly starts to grin. "Someone who gave you...too much credit," he says around a ragged cough. He grimaces oddly, working his jaw, then bites down on something that cracks between his teeth. _Poison_ , Steve realizes dumbly, like something out of a bad spy movie, only people don't really _do_ that...do they? "Hail...Hydra," the traitor gasps through a mouthful of foam, body already twitching as the poison takes effect.

"Hydra?" Steve's demon says just behind his shoulder. Steve jumps, heart in his throat, and spins with his appropriated gun still in hand. He didn't even hear the demon arrive, and while it's still in its human guise, it--he?--is not a small man. The top of Steve's head just crests the demon's shoulders, and those shoulders probably span twice the breadth of Steve's skinny frame. Corded with muscle, he looks every inch the living weapon Hodge had been all but drooling over, but the tilt of his head and the curiosity in his eyes now that the fighting is over is mild. He either doesn't notice or doesn't care that he's as naked as Adam. "What's a big, dumb eating machine got to do with anything?"

Steve shakes his head. "Not...not that kind of hydra." He feels like he's missed something. Shouldn't the demon be running amok right now? And shouldn't he be getting back to the business of dying? Unless the demon's waiting until they've finished the pact, or...or unless....

 _Mine_.

Unless somehow, without his knowing it, they already _have_ completed the pact. He has no idea how he might have managed that, but maybe Erskine can--

"Dr. Erskine!" he yelps, horrified at himself, looking wildly around.

"Over here," Stark calls grimly, and Steve spots a hand waving impatiently from the sunken ring surrounding the platform.

He bolts that way at a sprint, dropping to his knees at the edge and slithering over the side. His demon follows at a more sedate pace, and--clothes, he should really make those a priority, yes. He's just a little distracted at the moment with other things.

Stark's remaining technicians are huddled as close to the floor as possible, but Stark and one of the healers waiting on standby kneel to either side of Erskine. Frowning in concentration, the healer has her fingers pressed to the side of the old man's throat; Stark sits with a gun held loosely in one hand, on guard for the next attacker.

There's blood on Erskine's head from a nasty cut, but he's still breathing. His jacket's been stripped off and rolled up under his head; he looks terribly pale, but the healer doesn't seem too worried. "His pulse is strong," she says after a moment, looking first at Stark and then at Steve. "I couldn't detect any fractures, and it's generally best to let concussions sort themselves out. He'll need to be kept under observation for the next several hours--"

"I've got it," Stark offers before Steve can volunteer. "I owe the guy; it's fine. What about you, Rogers?" he asks, looking Steve over sharply. "You don't look dead to me, so I'm guessing you two worked something out?"

The healer rises immediately, approaching Steve with a worried frown and her hand outstretched.

Steve's demon--and holy hell, this really is _his demon_ \--slaps her hand like he just caught her trying to snitch a taste from a mixing bowl.

"Mine," the demon says reproachfully as the healer flinches back, catches herself, and stares.

"Uh...I feel fine," Steve says, feeling the back of his neck start to prickle with heat. "Really."

Actually, he feels better than fine. The warmth of the demon's influence still coils around and through him, but it's milder now, less a constant, forceful pressure and more a low-grade hum. It might just be that the crisis has passed--he may or may not be _fixed_ , exactly--but it's possible his demon is committed to maintaining him, at least for now.

The healer hesitates only a moment before squaring her shoulders. "Maybe so, but if you'll let me examine you--"

Steve's demon cocks his head with a puzzled frown. "Uh...mine?" he repeats, voice quizzical. "I can heal him. I _have_ healed him. Get your own."

The heat crawls up Steve's jaw and into his cheeks as the healer glances from the demon to him and back again. "You healed him, huh? Can I see?"

The demon grins smugly. "Sure. But don't try anything funny," he adds, smile traded just as swiftly for a glare.

"Hey!" Stark calls to the room at large, sitting up a bit to try and peer over the walls of the pit. "Can somebody get this guy some pants?

"Bad enough you're tall," he mutters under his breath, shaking his head.

The demon's smug grin comes back with a vengeance, slipping only when Agent Carter steps up to the edge of the pit, looming over them with folded arms. Steve is immediately mortified on her behalf. Jesus, there's a _lady_ present. Not that the healer isn't a lady, but healers see a lot of naked people; his mom was always perfectly up-front about that, never let him get away with thinking that the human body was anything to be ashamed of, no matter what it looked like.

Carter's eyes stay firmly above the demon's shoulders, even when one of the MPs who'd ducked out comes back in, sees her, and curses, all but tripping down the stairs to fling a pair of military-issue khakis at the demon's head.

"What exactly are you playing at?" she demands. Steve instantly wants to snap to attention, but her eyes remain fixed on the demon.

Bent half-over to pull on his borrowed pants, the demon pauses with an arched brow. "Uh...are you confusing me with a genie? I can't create something out of nothing."

"Not the clothes," Carter says briskly. "Why are you still here?"

Straightening with a jolt, the demon just manages to pull what should have been loose-fitting trousers up over thighs that fill the material out snugly. At least he's got a narrow waist. "Where the hell else would I be?" the demon demands, making quick work of button and zipper so he can plant both hands on his hips.

The corners of Carter's mouth twitch up in a humorless smile. "I think you just answered your own question."

"Look, lady," the demon growls, one arm shooting out to wave in Steve's direction. "He called, I answered. End of story."

"But the binding ritual wasn't completed."

The demon shrugs. "So? Wouldn't make him any more mine than he already is."

Steve clears his throat. Had anyone ever told him demons are possessive? He's pretty sure someone should have mentioned that, because he's starting to feel like the single gold coin in a dragon's hoard. "Uh...I think they're more worried about _you_ being _mine_."

The demon stares at him for a long moment, utterly nonplussed. "Why the hell would I bother with somebody I didn't belong to?" The demon shakes his head. "You people have some nutty ideas about how this works."

Steve and Carter trade glances. Steve's mostly puzzled, but Carter's face hardens with suspicion. "Very well. What's your Name, then?"

The demon snorts. "Like I'm gonna tell _you_."

"What about Steve?"

"Why?" the demon asks, turning to Steve and making a face. "You planning on using it?"

"Well, I have to call you something," Steve temporizes.

"Sure you do," the demon agrees peaceably, "but it doesn’t have to be my Name. In fact, call me anything you like, just so long as it's _nothing_ like my Name."

"And why not your Name?" Carter insists before Steve can make a suggestion.

The demon sighs. "Look," he says patiently, "you go around yelling for Rumpelstiltskin, and the magic trick doesn't work anymore. I'm here 'cause I want to be. You give someone else the means to call me, and eventually it's going to be someone I'll _have_ to answer to. Without eating them," he adds, purely in the interest of fairness if his thoughtful shrug is any indication.

He turns back to Steve. "So, what's it going to be? And bear in mind 'Rumpelstiltskin' is a mouthful," he warns with a lopsided smile.

"Uh," Steve says, casting about frantically even as his mind goes blank. "How about...um...Buck?"

"Buck?" the demon repeats, deadpan. "Is this about the horns? Because those were horns, not antlers."

"Bucky, then," Steve says stubbornly, looking the demon dead in the eye.

To his surprise, the demon grins. "Bucky, huh? Like Buck?"

"No, like Buchanan."

"Buck Buchanan!" he parrots with a genuine laugh, head tipping back as his grin stretches wide. His teeth are blunt and harmless in this form, but Steve doesn't fool himself that they can't change in an instant.

"Buchanan Barnes," Steve corrects him anyway, smiling despite himself.

"Oh! Like a human alias? Wait, wait, I want to be James," the demon says with a mischievous smirk that's just--

"Like the Bible?" Steve asks, startled.

"Exactly like the Bible!" the demon crows, eyes lit with near-childish enthusiasm. "James Buchanan Barnes. What do you think?"

"I'm still calling you Bucky," Steve warns, testing the waters a bit. He's supposed to be the one in charge. If he can't control what he's summoned....

The demon's smile is...pleased? Proud? Steve can't quite wrap his head around it, but it's definitely not angry. "Yeah, that's what I thought, too."

Carter shakes her head at them, but the tension stiffening her stance reluctantly bleeds away. "If you gentlemen are quite finished...."

Bucky grins. "Pretty sure I've never been a gentleman, but have it your way."

Steve elbows him in the side--when did he get so close?--but Bucky just leans into it contentedly.

"Rogers!" Phillips bellows from across the room. "If that demon of yours isn't going to blow up the city, I'm waiting on a report. Carter! How's Erskine?"

"Blow up the city?" Bucky echoes incredulously as Carter and the healer take turns answering Phillips, Stark jumping in halfway. "Why would I want to blow up a city?"

"Uh...you're a demon...?"

Bucky nods expectantly. "And?"

Steve opens his mouth, closes it again. Blowing up a city seems pretty self-explanatory to him. Chaos, death, destruction, suffering--isn't that what a demon's supposed to want?

"Humans are weird?" he says instead, hunching a shoulder.

Bucky breaks into another wide, white grin, nothing grudging. "You got that right, pal," he says, nudging Steve's shoulder gently with his own.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little short, but I'm juggling a bunch of stuff, and better short than nothing, I hope!

Phillips may have wanted Steve's report first thing, but it's not that simple. Senator Brandt storms back in as the dust settles, red-faced and puffed up, spoiling for a fight. "What the hell, Phillips--I thought that creature was contained," he snaps, shooting an unfriendly glance at Bucky, who ignores him. "And how the hell did your people _miss_ something like that...that _other_ thing?"

"Senator," Phillips begins with a scowl, his gravelly voice losing the placating tone he'd used with Brandt before. "Let me assure you, my people will be looking very closely into how a man from the State Department--who hitched a ride here in _your_ car--turned out to be a Hydra spy."

Brandt's eyes narrow. "If you're suggesting something, Colonel--"

Carter clenches her jaw, glaring a hole in the senator's back before briefly catching Phillips' eyes. When she turns to Steve, she angles her body to block him from Brandt's view. "Follow me," she says, quiet and calm. "We should clear this area so they can assess the damages."

Despite her words, she gestures for him to go first, Bucky following close on his heels. She remains at their backs until they step out into the hall, the chamber's doors shutting with a hiss behind him. When Steve glances back, he finds her frowning furiously past them, but when her eyes dart to his, one corner of her mouth twitches in a tiny, reassuring smile.

"Come on," she says, taking the lead and striding swiftly down the corridor, turning at the first right they come to. Halfway down the hall, she opens a door onto a private office and steps aside to let them enter first. Her eyes rove the corridor at their backs, alert for any sign of trouble, and she remains standing by the door even after she steps inside and gently closes it.

It's a large office, with a behemoth of a desk to the left and a giant map table straight ahead. The walls in that half of the office are braced by filing cabinets on all three sides, with clocks showing the time in New York, London and Berlin hung up over them on the far wall. There's a long leather couch to the right that probably looked impressive once but now looks a little slept-on; the matching leather chairs have joined two straight-backed, wooden ones in front of the desk, ready for their next impromptu conference.

"Have a seat, please," Carter invites. Steve wavers, manners insisting he can't just sit in the presence of a lady, until Carter tartly adds, "Before you fall down."

"I feel fine," he grumbles, but he slouches over to one of the wooden chairs regardless. Bucky follows after him, dropping down into the other plain chair, the one nearest the wall. His long legs stretch out before him in a relaxed, casual sprawl, bare toes flexing against the checkerboard tiles, and he slumps down a little, spine a gentle curve as he hooks his thumbs into empty belt loops. He looks utterly at home in his body, to a degree Steve can't even imagine, and it's not even his original form.

When he looks over and finds Steve watching him, Bucky's mouth curves in an amiable smile. Steve doesn't even know what to do with that. The occult instructor the SSR had brought in warned them to expect sullenness, distrust, for every interaction to be a struggle for power until the demon learned to accept its binding. Yet here's Bucky, who Steve can't even be sure _is_ bound to him, calmly following his lead like they've known each other for years.

He really wants to ask about that, but he suspects he'll get more out of Bucky if they're alone. Bucky's already balked once about disclosing information in front of Carter, and something in Steve rebels against the idea of putting Bucky on the spot, trapping him in a situation where Steve will have to put his foot down. He realizes belatedly that he's been thinking of demons as badly-trained dogs, something he's going to have to build trust and a rapport with when it's scared and resentful and probably just wants to bite. Meeting Bucky has already blown every assumption he has right out of the water.

Bucky arches a brow expectantly, and Steve realizes he's been staring too long. Shaking his head quickly, he peels his eyes away and tries to find a single other point of interest in the entire room. The map table would probably qualify if it weren't so far away, but Carter's giving him the same look as Bucky and the desk before him is utterly clean.

He jumps a little when the door bangs open--Carter reaches for her sidearm--but Bucky just turns his head to look over his shoulder as Phillips comes stomping in. Stark's right behind him, and Steve half-rises in alarm when he sees the arm flung over Stark's shoulder, Erskine wobbling in on shaky, determined legs with Stark for a crutch.

Erskine waves Steve back down with his free hand, but his eyes are fixed intently on Bucky. Bucky had started to rise as well, watching Steve for cues, but when he notices Erskine's attention, he cocks his head curiously.

"You sure you should be up, old man?" Bucky asks without heat, sinking back into his chair. He sits a little straighter this time, not quite wary but not nearly as careless.

"I suspect this is a meeting too important to miss," Erskine says dryly, allowing Stark to help him over to one of the padded leather chairs.

"Right," Phillips says, going over to prop a hip against the front of his desk, looming over them all. "Like how the hell Hydra smuggled a demon into my observation room. That was no transformation; security double-checked everything, and everyone present's been seen and accounted for."

Erskine shakes his head gingerly. "There's a ward that can render you all but invisible, but it doesn't work very well on moving objects. It would have set off our own boundary alarms, as well. It's more likely the spy was acting as a host for the demon, carrying it inside himself until he could turn it loose."

That...sounds remarkably like the kind of demon Erskine had told him about just the night before, and the idea that there could be more of them, unseen and undetectable, sends a shiver down Steve's spine.

Bucky frowns. "Uh...that wasn't a demon," he says, glancing around their circle with a quizzical look like he's waiting to hear the punchline. "Or at least, I guess it could have been _some_ god's bad idea, but definitely not a local's."

"Explain," Phillips raps out, hands clenching on the edge of his desk.

Bucky glances at Steve first before hunching a shoulder. "It felt all wrong. Everything from this neck of the woods has the same kind of energy. Maybe more of it or less of it, maybe different shades of it, but it all came from the same pool, and it shows. That thing back there?" He shakes his head. "It had to have been brought in from somewhere else. There was too much...off about it."

"Somewhere else?" Erskine asks, fingers pressing at the edge of the bandaged cut on his forehead. "How do you mean? Another planet? Another plane?"

"You got me there," Bucky says, hunching a shoulder. "Any plane that touches this one would be too close. But if it was brought in from elsewhere, then it might not have needed a host. The guy could've used an artifact to summon it instead."

Erskine stiffens in his chair, eyes wide and horrified. "An artifact," he breathes, eyes jerking to meet Phillips'. Steve watches grim understanding settle over both their faces while Stark's turns perplexed. Carter's wearing a poker face a card sharp would envy when he sneaks a glance her way; he can't tell if she knows about Schmidt's wild theories or not.

Bucky arches a brow. "Uh...yeah? So has anyone checked the body? Whatever he used is probably still on him unless you've got bigger problems."

Phillips casts a sharp look at Carter, who nods once and slips out the door, shutting it quietly behind her. Steve finds himself wanting to wait on further questions for her return; she may rub Bucky the wrong way, and she can be more than a little intimidating, but she feels like an ally.

"Great," Stark says with a too-bright smile. "So while we're on the subject of bigger problems, mind telling us how you got through all those wards?"

"And without a pact being struck, at that," Erskine adds, expression grave.

Bucky scowls, eyes narrowing in confusion. "Without a...what?" He turns expectantly to Steve as if waiting for him to step in and reassure them, but all Steve can do is shrug helplessly. Bucky's stare turns incredulous. "Oh, you've got to be--" He stops himself with a headshake and takes a deep breath.

"Right. So, first of all," he says to Stark, "your wards--"

"His wards," Stark interrupts, jerking his head at Erskine.

"--his wards were meant to keep unfriendly strangers out. I'm not unfriendly," Bucky says patiently, "and I'm not a stranger. He grabbed the bond I offered the second I tossed it," Bucky says, nodding at Steve. "All that was left was settling the terms."

"Wait," Steve says quickly, a germ of understanding growing in the back of his thoughts. "You mean the...the rope," he says, waving his hand vaguely between the center of his own chest and Bucky's. "That tug."

Bucky shrugs. "If that's how you see it. And then we struck a pact--"

"When did we do that?" Steve interrupts again. He gets the feeling Bucky's completely in earnest with all this, but--

Erskine makes an odd, stifled noise just then, but when Steve jerks his head around to check on him, he finds Erskine smiling. "You wished to make a difference."

Bucky nods; Steve can just see it out of the corner of his eye. "Like I said, I can work with that."

Erskine chuckles softly, his smile growing into a grin. "That was good," he says--to Steve, not Bucky. "That was _very_ good."

"And then we sealed it with blood," Bucky sums up, "and there you have it. So no more talk like we don't have a pact," he says, voice as stern as his face. "You wanted to keep 'im," he adds, eyes jumping to each of the others in turn, "you should've put your mark on him first. I ain't giving him back now."

Phillips scowls, on the verge of digging in his heels just because he's been told he can't; Steve maybe recognizes that expression from too much personal experience. Erskine's brows arch as he opens his mouth, only to catch himself, falling silent with an embarrassed cough. Steve mostly just wants the floor to swallow him up.

Stark shakes his head impatiently. "But the circle. The containment field. Did it work or not?"

Bucky eyes him flatly, and it suddenly occurs to Steve to wonder: just how willingly _do_ most demons step into their summoning circles? He's always just assumed that the payment they ask in trade is worth it to them, but the way the instructor, Hodge, nearly _everyone_ talks...it doesn't sound much like a trade of goods for labor to Steve.

"Well, now. I guess that depends on what you were actually trying to do," Bucky says at last. His face has closed off, not quite unfriendly but not particularly pleased, even when his eyes waver in Steve's direction. Steve's a little bewildered that he's already expecting Bucky's first reaction to be a smile. "Most of you people's summoning circles are just big nets. Cast 'em wide and reel in whatever comes to investigate. It's mostly imps and the like, nothing too dangerous; just angel fodder left over from the war.

"I can pretty much guarantee you sent all the little guys running for the hills the instant you sealed _that_ thing, though," he says, tilting his head in the direction of the summoning chamber. "That was some real Ring of Solomon stuff, and I got curious. Wanted to see who was causing all the fuss."

Bucky's eyes cut back to Steve, but this time they linger thoughtfully. Steve tries hard not to feel weighed by that stare. Whatever Bucky's looking for, unless it's pure stubbornness, he's probably not going to find it.

"Thing is," Bucky continues after a moment, "you're not going to get the small fry if you're using that thing. Hook anyone stronger than me, and your wards and a can of paint will get you a nice floor decoration. Weaker...?" Bucky pulls a face, shaking his head. "Hit or miss. You'll get a few bored types or some with agendas, but there's plenty who remember the bad old days, and they'll take it out on you for reminding them. But hey, that's kind of the risk you take when you make it clear only the strongest need apply."

"And what about you?" Phillips demands. "What makes you so special?"

Bucky smirks. "I got enough weight to not be dragged in and enough mean to do something about it if I don't like the way the deal is going. I'm here because I want to be."

"And why is that?" Erskine asks curiously. He's more polite than Phillips; he gets a more polite answer.

"Liked the look of the caller," Bucky admits with a shrug, the tiniest twitch of a smile. "Didn't seem like the kind of guy who'd run from a fight. Figured I'd follow him around for a while, see where he took us."

Steve gets the feeling there's more that Bucky's not saying, but he wants to press now even less than he did before. He's starting to think they know even less about demons than even Erskine realizes, and he wants to ask; he's just not certain whether he should.

A soft knock on the door interrupts Erskine's next question, Carter stepping through without waiting for an invitation. She has a small cardboard box in one hand, the top flaps still gaping open; she holds it out to Phillips first, but after a quick look inside, Phillips shakes his head.

"You think that summoned a demon?" he asks as Carter gives the box to Erskine.

"Our sniffer was quite certain," she says, sinking calmly into the seat vacated as Stark pops to his feet and goes to lean over Erskine's arm, peering in himself. "The camouflaging is rather clever. No one would question someone having it on their person, any more than you would question a lady's compact. We'll need someone to take it apart--"

"I can do that," Stark says automatically. "Mechanical magic is my specialty, remember?"

"Carefully," Carter warns. "Our sniffer only found it because he was looking for things he might have missed. He said it felt...alien."

All eyes turn to Bucky, who shrugs and holds out a hand. "Well, pass it over, then."

Stark takes the box from Erskine and hands it reluctantly over to Carter. He looks like he wants to be in the lab already, impatient for the artifact to make its way back to him.

Steve glances into the box when Carter passes it on, but all he sees is a gold-plated lighter, newer but not especially fancy.

When Bucky takes the box, he rattles it gently and leans in to take a literal sniff. His upper lip curls at whatever he smells, but he shakes his head. "Different," he says, handing it back to Steve, "but a different kind of different than your uninvited guest. Not sure what to tell you without knowing how this thing works."

"Well, I'm sure you'll have plenty of time to figure it out," Phillips says. "Rogers, I'm assigning you to work with Erskine until we get a proper containment procedure developed. Stark--"

"But sir," Steve interrupts before he can stop himself. "I--thought we were needed on the front lines--"

"And you'll get there when we have enough manpower to send with you," Phillips growls over him. "I need an army, not one demon."

Steve clenches his jaw, Hodge's snide crack about real soldiers ringing in his ears.

"Carter," Phillips says, looking away once he's satisfied Steve has remembered he's a soldier. "Take these two back to barracks. And find that one some clothes." He jerks his chin at Bucky, who smirks, stretching out indolently with one arm hooked over the back of the chair. It creaks beneath his weight. "Erskine--"

"I believe I'll accompany Mr. Stark, Colonel," Erskine says. Stark looks up quickly from the box he's reclaimed, guilt warring with excitement as he remembers the promise he'd made to the healer. "I believe I'm supposed to stay awake for a little while, and I'm curious to see what's hiding inside that little device.

"Steve," he adds, "I'll be along to speak with you when I can. Yes?"

"Sure, Doc," Steve says as he stands, knowing a dismissal when he hears one. Bucky rises as well, giving the others a long, considering look before turning to follow Steve out.

Steve fumes in silence as he trails along in Carter's wake. He knows he won't change Phillips' mind by making a scene; it's just hard to take, hearing that he's still not good enough. He'd been quick on his feet back there, hadn't he? Mentally _and_ physically. And he's obviously not dead, and if Bucky will just consent to keeping him alive a little longer....

He glances sideways and finds bright blue eyes trained on him like he's the only thing in existence that matters, and that reminds him to take a slow, deep breath. He's been warned that demons will take things extremely literally when it suits them, and he doesn't want words spoken in frustration to have unintended consequences.

"You okay?" Bucky asks after a moment. Steve smiles tightly, but all he can do is nod. "You sure? I can create a distraction; we could be on the next boat to wherever before they even realize we're gone."

"I _am_ right here," Carter reminds Bucky without a backwards glance.

"Aw, you wouldn't rat us out, wouldja?" Bucky asks with a charming smile. "Gotta say, I'm a pretty decent fighter. Your lot'd be glad to have us front and center."

Steve doesn't so much as twitch in reaction, but Bucky's unthinking 'us' hits him right where he lives.

Carter does glance back then, her frown speculative, but the question she asks isn't the one Steve expects. "Was your last summoner also from New York? If I didn't know better, I'd think you were a native."

Bucky lets loose with a cheerful bark of laughter, though he ducks his head, almost shy. "Nah. It's New York, y'know? I like this place. Been thinking about becoming the Demon of New York."

"What?" Steve sputters, torn between shock and amusement. "You can't just _become_ the Demon of New York."

Bucky sets his jaw stubbornly, but his eyes are bright with glee. "Why not? There's already angels laying claim to everything under the sun. You've got the Angel of Lightning, the Angel of Books--the Angel of _Thursday_ , although why Thursday needs an angel, I got no clue. Why can't I be the Demon of New York?"

"Because New York doesn't need a demon?"

"Now, there's where you're wrong," Bucky replies smugly, putting a little extra swagger in his walk. "Place this big, this alive? Can't think of anywhere that needs one more."

Carter glances back again, her footsteps slowing a fraction. "You seem to know the city well. Have you been here without a summoner?"

"And get myself hunted? No thanks," Bucky says firmly. "I don't mess with angels unless I gotta, and if they catch one of us here unbound? Let's just say there's a reason you're never going to see an armistice.

"No, there's ways to...peek through?" Bucky scrunches his face up uncertainly, his answer more like a question. "Places where things are thinner. Plus some really loud people who do a lot of shouting into the dark. So I listen," he says with a shrug. "Keep an eye out. Never know when something interesting's going to come knocking."

He glances at Steve when he says that, the corners of his eyes crinkling from a smile he tries to contain. Steve founds himself unaccountably flustered, except he can't think of a single person other than his own ma who would ever have called him _interesting_ , much less be glad to see him coming.

"Fortunate for us," Carter says dryly, but that just makes Bucky laugh. So maybe it's not Carter herself that puts Bucky's back up. Maybe it's just certain kinds of questions.

Unfortunately, Steve's still got a few of those.

He keeps a lid on it as Carter commandeers the rest of the uniform Bucky's half borrowing, Bucky pulling on shirt and socks and boots in an empty locker room while Steve waits by the door, Carter just outside. The footwear is fine, but the shirt strains across Bucky's broad shoulders, the sculpted muscles of his chest and arms. It startles Steve a little when Bucky stops to peer into one of the mirrors over the sinks, finger-combing his dark hair until he achieves the artfully tousled look he wants. Steve's not sure why that surprises him like it does; demons are supposed to be vain, right? It's just such a human thing to do.

The old woman manning the front of the antiques store gives Bucky a thoughtful glance when they step out of the back, but she only looks puzzled, like she's trying to place this new face from amongst the actual MPs stationed downstairs. It's true that Bucky passes better than any demon Steve's ever heard of. There's usually something that gives them away: the eyes, the teeth, or the addition of horns, claws, tails. Some don't even try.

No one singles Bucky out particularly as they step out onto the street, though a trio of girls perk up at the sight of him, smiling more widely and leaning into each other with barely-stifled giggles as they pass. Steve they don't even notice, but honestly, he's used to that.

Following Steve gamely into the waiting car, Bucky stares out all the windows in turn, craning his head to watch the scenery stream past. On Steve's other side, Carter watches with a trace of bemusement, most of her earlier suspicion vanished from her eyes. It's clear from Bucky's unabashed delight that his experience of the city he loves has all been secondhand, or else he's a phenomenal actor. He _is_ a demon. Steve's a little worried that he needs to remind himself of that.

The three of them spend the drive to Camp Lehigh mainly in silence, Steve and Carter too lost in thoughts of the future for idle conversation, Bucky too lost in the _now_.

"Will you be fine from here?" Carter asks as the car pulls in past the checkpoint, driving past the administrative offices and hanging a left into SSR territory. She makes no move to get out as the driver coasts to a stop near the barracks, and Steve realizes she means to turn around and head right back into the thick of things. He tries not to feel bitter about that; he knows Carter's worked harder than anybody on this project, has more riding on it than most.

"Sure," he says lightly. "Don't let the doc work himself too hard, okay?"

"I suppose I can always sit on him." Her sympathetic smile is genuine; she knows what it is to be undervalued, relegated to the sidelines before she even has a chance to prove herself.

Steve and Bucky climb out of the car, and Steve doesn't stare after it as it drives away. He wonders if he should take Bucky by the quartermaster, the mess--what do demons even eat?--but instead he pulls his shoulders back, keeps his chin held high, and marches into the still-empty barracks like everything's fine.

The confident pose wilts as Bucky shuts the door behind himself, but there's no point in keeping it up when it's just the two of them.

That thought makes him stiffen fractionally, realizing all at once that he's all alone with a demon he's not sure he understands, let alone controls. If Bucky's affable air turns out to be a sham, Steve's already dead.

As Steve turns reluctantly back to face him, Bucky just tilts his head a fraction, eyes clear and bright, waiting to see what Steve will do next.

"Um...have a seat?" Steve invites, holding his arm out to indicate the long rows of empty beds stretching out before them. "I, uh...I don't know how long we'll be staying here, but make yourself at home, I guess. Um. Do you mind if I ask you some more questions?"

He expects Bucky's expression to turn wary again, but Bucky only shrugs. "Sure, go ahead. I'd be surprised if you didn't have any, to be honest."

"Right. So. You're really good at passing for human," he blurts out. It's not the question he means to ask, but he guesses it'll do for a lead-up.

"Practice," Bucky says easily. "You pick up some things after a while, and I've always been good at transformations."

"Huh. When you say 'always'--" Steve catches himself, biting his lip with a grimace. "That's probably a rude question."

Bucky gives another of those full-bodied laughs that tips his head back and makes his eyes dance with mirth. "You're all right, kid," he says with a grin as he catches his breath. "If it helps, I was of the order of angels that doesn't give a damn for orders. Honorary," he adds cryptically, "but I got no beef with who they lumped me in with. You wondering what I can do?"

"A little," Steve admits, hesitantly edging towards his still-made bunk and gaining confidence when Bucky follows him. He expects Bucky to sit down on the next bed over the way Dr. Erskine had the night before, but instead Bucky takes a seat beside him, so close their knees are nearly brushing. Even seated Bucky looms over him, his intent, undivided attention just straddling the line between intimidating and gratifying. "I mean, I've seen you transform, and that...barrier thing you did...?"

"Shield," Bucky corrects him with a nod. "It's kind of like a ward, but a ward just fends off magic. A shield'll take care of physical threats as well."

"It sounds like...I think I read about those. But...don't they have to be stationary?"

"Eh...most people find that easier, I guess," Bucky says, hunching a shoulder. "But I've always had a knack for 'em. I could teach you if you want," he adds, like it's no big deal. "Pretty sure you'd be good at it, too. You've got the right sort of...." Pulling the corners of his mouth in as he searches for words, he waves vaguely at Steve's chest.

Steve's cheeks prickle with embarrassment. "I've, uh...I've never been able to practice. The Art. I mean...you saw the shape I was in earlier."

"Yeah, um--that's another thing," Bucky says, ducking his head a little as he rubs awkwardly at the back of his neck. "So, I'm not actually a healer. I mean, I can tell you've been sick a lot, and that it's kind of messed with some stuff, but if you were hoping I could turn you into what you were meant to be?" Bucky grimaces apologetically. "Way above my pay grade, I'm afraid."

"That's...that's okay," Steve gets out, a little blankly. What he was meant to be? Does that mean that...if he hadn't gotten sick. If they hadn't been poor. Would he have turned out differently? "But you...my lungs. My heart?"

Bucky nods. "That's a bit different. I can't do the bone-deep changes that'd make you all big and tough, but I can do little things. Share my strength. Keep you from getting sick again. Keep things working until they remember how to do it themselves. It only works for the person I'm bound with, and it does mean you'll shake off any wound you ever take, but...you're going to be feeling my power working on you pretty much constantly. Sorry."

He actually looks sorry, peering at Steve through his lashes like he's worried this is a deal-breaker. Maybe it has been in the past; Steve can't imagine many people being comfortable with the idea of demonic magic thrumming through them _all the time_. The thing is, Bucky's magic feels...warm. Soothing, even. And Steve had already made up his mind to die if that's what it took; quibbling about this seems ridiculous in comparison.

"No, that's--it's fine. I mean, I can feel it, but it's not... _bad_ or anything. I just--look, you never said. What _you're_ getting out of this," Steve forces himself to say, nerves twisting tight, "or how long it's going to last. And I'd really like some warning before you...."

Bucky's brows shoot up incredulously. "What, before I eat you? Reap your soul?"

Steve hunches a shoulder. He can't help the mulish scowl that settles over his face or the way his spine stiffens at Bucky's tone. "It's not like you did anything by the book," he points out, forcing his clenched jaw to relax.

"Yeah, well, that's what happens when humans write the books. You're right though," he says contritely, startling Steve out of his growing funk. "Been a while since I did this. Guess I skipped through some things."

"So?" Steve insists, afraid they'll get stuck on a tangent if he asks _how long_ like he suddenly wants to. "What _is_ your price?"

He's expecting Bucky to grin, sidelong and sly. He's not expecting Bucky's answer to be, "You."

Steve stares. Him? Him how? "Wait--what? Wait," he sputters, glaring as Bucky starts laughing under his breath, like he's trying to keep it under control but Steve's face is making it impossible. "What does that even mean? Am I dinner _and_ a collector's item?" Bucky hoots, curling over on himself and listing sideways when Steve nails him with an elbow. "Come on, you jerk! Am I supposed to be your servant for all eternity? What?"

"You'd be the worst servant ever," Bucky gasps out through helpless laughter, planting a hand on Steve's mattress to right himself.

Steve narrows his eyes. "Is that a dare?" Wait. "Because I'm not falling for that." Better.

Bucky shakes his head, grinning hugely. "Nah, nothing like that. I mean, sure, there's some demons who'd go in for that--it's different with everybody, y'know? What you gotta remember is that a pact can't be struck without consent, and I can't take anything you don't offer. So when I say _you_...."

"You mean...the bond?"

Bucky's grin softens with warm approval. "Exactly. Like I said, it's different for everyone, but I _like_ having an invite to be here. I get to see the sights, meet new people-- _do_ things instead of just watching them. I'm just picky about who I want to spend my time around. No offense, but most demon-summoners are pretty rotten to deal with."

Steve tenses, expecting the worst. "So...what? You picked me because I looked like a pushover?"

"Nah," Bucky scoffs, leaning in to bump his shoulder companionably against Steve's own. "I picked you 'cause you've got the right kind of shine."

Steve has no idea what Bucky means by that, and all the guesses he comes up with seem a little too far-fetched. He's not sure he wants to question too closely; Bucky seems easy with him, in a way he isn't with the others, but Steve hasn't _pushed_.

"Also," Bucky adds judiciously, "it wouldn't take half a minute in your company to figure out you're not a pushover, so that'd have been pretty dumb of me."

Steve rolls his eyes and looks away to hide the ghost of a smile. It's probably just flattery, but he can't deny that it warms him through all the same.


End file.
